Sleep
by Suppi-chan
Summary: Noin, his memories, and Maron as she sleeps. Vol 4 spoilers. PG13 for Noin being Noin.


SLEEP  
a KKJ fic by Meg  
  
KKJ belongs to the almighty Tanemura-sensei and related companies.   
This fic belongs to ME. Do not take, I bite.  
  
----  
  
There is a god that arms him with a flower  
And she was stricken deep. Here, oh die here.  
Kiss me and I shall be purer than quick rivers.   
  
-- Black Marigolds, translated   
by E. Powys Mathers from the Sanskrit  
  
Dream in peace  
And I'll keep guard  
Heal in peace;  
Take your time, I'll still love you  
Doze off safely; There's more days  
Wake up on a brighter day  
-- "Sleep", Lab, Porn Beautiful  
  
---  
  
Once there had been occasion for him to help her from the battlefield; or rather as was usual for Jeanne, she had fought the entire day and would have continued had he not seen the slow seep of blood dying her sleeve and hauled her from the battlefield, with her protesting every step of the way.  
  
Then he had been surprised, in the clear way that battle brought upon him, at how very light she was despite her heavy armour, and he remembered thinking distinctly that without it she would be nothing but a feather to hold, or perhaps a flower. Like holding a rose.  
  
And now he held her in his arms again, just as light as she had been to carry from the sounds and scent of battle. He cradled her against his chest and took the tears from her eyes with one gentle fingertip. Her tears tasted of salt and wind, and faintly of the scent of a wildflower that grew where he had been born. He held her closer and smoothed her hair back from where it clung damply to her cheeks. So pale, so fragile, even though he knew how strong she really was. He carried her to the car and laid her on the seat -- he hated putting her down, letting go of her for even a second, but it must be done.  
  
.  
  
(Sometimes he tries to remember his mortal life -- not very often, although anything to do with her he cherishes like a blade to the heart, that cannot be removed lest you die -- and thinks that he must have been a good man. He remembers going to Mass, and standing in the incense-scented half-light of the cathedrals. He liked going to Mass, although now he is not sure if it was because he was truly pious or because of the scent of the herbs and the priest's voice, rolling over the Latin of the service. His Latin was poor, anyway -- Church Latin, they called it then, meaning you knew enough to follow the words of the priest but not much else. Being the second son of a second son, he had no chance to improve it, although he might have become a priest.   
  
But he was not fit for priesthood, his father said, and gave him his spurs and a decent horse and not much else. He'd wondered why.  
  
Probably it was cheaper to make a knight of him, he thinks now.)  
  
.  
  
Silk was waiting for him when he carried her inside the house, a small ball of scale and wings curled neatly by the door. One look and he uncurled and scuttled off to his den, a small box meant for cats but did very well for a small dragon. He poked his head out and gave his master a doubtful look, but when he was ignored he withdrew his head and settled back to sleep.  
  
He hesitated a moment at the door of his bedroom. What remained of his knightly training said that he should lay her on his bed or on the couch, dry her off as best he could and leave her until she woke.  
  
But he was no longer a knight, and she was soaked through. He sighed and laid her on his bed, reluctantly, and fetched a shirt from his chest.  
  
Odd, that his hands were not quite steady as he reached for the first fastening. He was not a boy, even if he had waited for this moment for time beyond counting. The button slid open, and the next, and the next.  
  
Skin like pearl, like satin, like white rose leaves barely flushed with pink. He stroked the line of her throat and drew his breath at how lovely it was. She was.  
  
He had to stop and close his eyes for a moment when her blouse fell open, exposing her breast. He opened them and continued, carefully, gently.  
  
.  
  
(A human that becomes a demon is given strength and undying life. They don't die. They can't die. They trade their human hearts and souls for something as cold and strong as ice, as sharp and deadly as steel.   
  
Of course, most humans who become demons quickly forget their human lives. Some of them want this. With the loss of your heart, your memories also go, and whatever has hurt you fades into the dim grey-black of the eternal past. And yet, little things still remain behind -- perhaps just one little quirk that would remind you, if you let it, that you were once human and once your heart was broken and left bleeding.  
  
Incidentally, he cannot bear open fires. The greatest invention of the modern world, as far as he is concerned, is central heating, where you never have to put wood on a fire. Of course, he doesn't really need to worry about such mundane things as keeping warm, but it makes him appear a little more human if he has heat in his house.  
  
Bonfires make him sick.)  
  
.  
  
Someone was talking, he realized, murmuring in the liquid French of his mortal days. Words of endearment, words of praise. It was him, he realized, he was the one speaking in a voice gone husky and reverent. How beautiful you are, my heart, my queen, how lovely your breasts and soft your skin, I love you, I love you, I've waited so very long. Hush, my dear, soon your tears will end, soon I will make this pain fade away. Oh lovely, oh sweet, the curve of your hip and the line of your waist. I love you, my dear, sleep and forget, I love you, soon you will be mine forever.  
  
He lifted her up and her clothing fell away with a soft swish against the bed. He held her gently and dried her hair -- softer than silk, like water pouring through his hands. Her scent filled his head and made him dizzy, damask roses, orange blossoms, the smell of summer wind blowing through perfume fields.  
  
.  
  
(He is a violent man, and he knows it; he has always been violent. Perhaps there was gentleness in him, but he never cared to search for it. Silk he treats like he had been treated as a squire; with cuffs and impatient explanations of what he must know. And yet even so Silk worships him; cringing at his harshness but following him around with something like a mute expectation that even if his master is hard, yet he must be fair. Perhaps he is, compared to how the other demon-beasts are treated by their masters.   
  
The violence in him is not only cruel; he has always been as violent in his loves. He had worshiped her, nearly as much as Silk worships him, and the thought that his goddess must give service to another god had been intolerable. If she could not worship him, then let her not worship at all; let her be pure and uncaring, let her be beyond thoughts of her worshippers or the need to worship something.)   
  
.  
  
He wanted to touch her, to kiss her throat and stroke the line of her waist, but he took another deep breath, trying to calm the way his heart was beating, thick and fast. It didn't help. He wanted to lie down beside her and curl into her, to lay beside her and drown in the reality of her.  
  
Not now. Not while tears still seeped through her closed eyelids and puddled like holy water onto her cheeks. Not now. Not yet. He took another, deeper breath and pulled his shirt around her, fastening it with careful hands that only shook the slightest bit.   
  
He laid her carefully on the bed and smoothed the sheets over her.   
  
Soon, he promised himself, soon she would know him and he would never lose her again.  
  
Soon.  
  
-----  
... ok, I've creeped myself out again. ._.  
  
This one's for Ann, because I STILL haven't finished the past fic, and she is as, uh, fond of Noin as I am.  
  
Chiaki: s/fond/scarily obsessed and would stalk him in a heartbeat.  
Meg: Shut up, Chiaki.  
  
Anyway, more or less inspired by the scene in four where Maron wakes up in Noin's bed wearing only one of his shirts, and he SAYS he didn't look, but if he didn't then I am Queen Victoria.  
  
And no, I have no idea of Noin's actual mortal life, although judging by his language, he was probably upper class, and judging by Mortal_Noin's cameo in six, he was probably a terribly earnest young man. With a beautiful heart and all that.  
  
Title comes from the song of the same name by Lab -- I said, Winamp, o Winamp, give unto me a title for this fic, and hit the skip button, and there it was. 


End file.
